Dark Winter
Dark Winter, Volume 1
Rebecca Fernfield
Published by Redbegga Publishing, 2020.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
COPYRIGHT
ALSO BY REBECCA FERNFIELD
THE EMP THREAT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
For my family.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright 2020 Rebecca Fernfield
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
DARK WINTER is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ALSO BY REBECCA FERNFIELD
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The Outcast’s Journey
The Path to Despair
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Deer Among Wolves
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(An EMP survival thriller series)
Days of Fire
Nights of Fire
Land of Fire
Town of Fire
Blackout and Burn omnibus edition
(An action-packed EMP survival thriller)
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(An apocalyptic alien invasion horror series)
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The Alaska Strain
THE EMP THREAT
Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack:
‘The United States—and modern civilization more generally—faces a present and continuing existential threat from naturally occurring and manmade electromagnetic pulse assault and related attacks on military and critical national infrastructures. A nationwide blackout of the electric power grid and grid-dependent critical infrastructures—communications, transportation, sanitation, food and water supply—could plausibly last a year or longer. Many of the systems designed to provide renewable, stand-alone power in case of an emergency, such as generators, uninterruptable power supplies (UPS), and renewable energy grid components, are also vulnerable to EMP attack.
A long-term outage owing to EMP could disable most critical supply chains, leaving the U.S. population living in conditions similar to centuries past, prior to the advent of electric power. In the 1800s, the U.S. population was less than 60 million, and those people had many skills and assets necessary for survival without today’s infrastructure. An extended blackout today could result in the death of a large fraction of the American people through the effects of societal collapse, disease, and starvation. While national planning and preparation for such events could help mitigate the damage, few such actions are currently underway or even being contemplated.’
‘Assessing the Threat from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP)’, July 2017, p. 4.
House of Commons Defence Committee:
‘3. On the basis of the evidence received, it seems likely that at present only those states with a known nuclear capability would be able to utilise an HEMP weapon. However, certain states such as Iran could potentially pose a realistic threat in the future, even if it does not currently do so, if nuclear non-proliferation efforts are not successful. Non-state actors could also pose a threat. While the risk may at present be low, the potential impact of such a weapon could be devastating and long-lasting for UK infrastructure. The Government cannot therefore be complacent about this threat and must keep its assessment of the risk under review. It is therefore vitally important that the work of hardening UK infrastructure is begun now and carried out as a matter of urgency. (Paragraph 42)
4. While existing non-nuclear EMP devices may be crude and limited, the fact that viable devices could be produced by non-state actors is a cause for concern. Even localised damage could have the potential to disrupt activity, especially if combined with other forms of attack. (Paragraph 47)’
‘Developing Threats: Electro-Magnetic Pulses (EMP)’, Tenth Report of Session 2010–12, p. 3.
CHAPTER ONE
Grimsby, England
Nine days and five hours had passed since Anna Crofton’s mother died of ovarian cancer, three since she ran out the back door of their rented house clutching a bag in one hand and her sister in the other. Fear had driven her to run and hide on that day and, as she peered down at the couple on the street, fear bit at her once more.
“It’s them!”
“Don’t let her see you! Come away from the window, Anna!”
“Don’t worry.” Anna forced herself to use a calmer tone. “She can’t see me.”
Their mother’s sudden death had plunged both girls into deep grief, but it wasn’t until the social workers assigned to their ‘case’ had turned up to place Jem in her temporary foster home, that Anna had experienced a pain so overwhelming it had stolen her breath.
“Let me see!”
“No! Stay back.” Anna flapped a hand at her sister. “They’ll see you.”
The pain tightened across Anna’s chest again as she peeked through the slit between thin bedsit curtains to the street below, her gaze locked onto the hefty bleached blonde in a black skirt pulled too tight over ample thighs. The fabric of the woman’s navy and orange polka-dot shirt stretched in taut bands across her back as she rapped at the front door. Beside Angel Mallard stood a paunchy man with a balding head and a faux leather document case tucked beneath his sweat-stained arm pit. The lanyard, and unflattering photo ID that identified him as Michael Bembridge from Children and Family Services, was trapped beneath the case. Anna recognised him as the social worker who had arrived with Angel to collect Jem.
Anna moved a fraction closer to the window, watching as the two off
icials exchanged words, the furrow between the woman’s brows a dark crease, the man shaking his head, rippling his flabby jowls. “How did they find us!” Breath fogged the glass and Angel Mallard turned her scowl to the upstairs window. Anna’s breath caught in her throat as she took a quick step back from the curtain; the woman’s thin lips had forced themselves into a curved pink gash as their eyes met, hers triumphantly shouting a silent ‘gotcha!’
The rapping repeated, louder this time, followed by a shout. “Miss Crofton, it’s Angel Mallard ... from Family Services.” The brassy ring of wiry blonde hair was the only evidence of anything angelic about the malevolent woman.
“Anna!” The fear in Jem’s voice scratched against Anna’s taut nerves.
“I need to see Jemima, please,” Angel’s tobacco-worn voice shouted.
Need to see Jemima! Who is she kidding? Anna knew that Angel wanted to rip away the only thing she had left in this world, the only thing she had left to love. Not a chance!
“Is it her?”
“Shh!”
“Don’t let her take me, Anna!”
Jem’s words cranked the coil tightening around Anna’s chest. “Shh! It’s okay, Jem.”
“Miss Crofton! I know you’re in there.” The voice was louder, shouted through the letterbox.
“Mum said to look after me!” Jem took a step back to the wardrobe, hazel eyes wide, flitting from Anna to the slit between the curtains. “You can’t let her take me. She’s a nasty cow!”
“Jem, I won’t let her take you,” Anna soothed as she grabbed her sister’s holdall, thrusting it at the girl, and motioning for her to pack. “But listen, we’re going to have to leave here ...” She glanced back through the slit. “I just can’t understand how they found us!”
Jem offered a non-committal ‘Dunno’ as she took the bag, grabbing last night’s pyjamas from the floor. “Let’s go to Aunty Liccia’s.”
Aunty Liccia, Alicia Southern, was their only living relative, at least the only one Anna knew of. “She lives in France, Jem.”
“I know, but we can go to her! Can’t we? Please?”
Anna sighed, biting back her words; Aunty Liccia, with her roller-coaster love life, and addiction to having ‘fun’, was the last person their mother would want Jem to live with, but moving across to France may be the only way for them to stay together. “We’ll see.”
Another knock on the door, and this time the man called Anna’s name. His voice was placating. “Miss Crofton, it’s in your sister’s best interest to open the door.” He stood back, peered up at the window, then rapped at the glass panel. This time the rapping was followed by a shout of, ‘Wait a minute!’ then thudding on the steps as one of the other residents made his way through the house.
The colour drained from Jem’s face, and Anna raced to the landing, heart pounding. “Don’t open the door!” she hissed at the man as she charged out of the room.
The stooped figure of their neighbour turned to her with bleared and glazed eyes in an uncomprehending, slack-jawed stupor. Unshaven, and dressed in stained t-shirt and baggy jogging bottoms, his face was blank. He shuffled back to face the front door. The dark shapes of Angel and Michael filled the frosted glass panels.
“Please!”
“But someone’s at the door,” he mumbled slowly.
Another series of raps, and the sour stink of sweat and stale alcohol wafted up the stairs. The man swayed and reached for the bannister.
“Miss Crofton!” Angel’s sharp tones rang through the letterbox.
The neighbour took another step down.
“Stop! Don’t open the door ... please!” Anna begged. The man moved down another step. Frantic, Anna shouted, “I’ll give you ten quid.”
He stopped, then turned, the glaze in his eyes clearing. Cracked lips curved into a lop-sided sneer, sallow cheeks rising to meet crumpled eye-bags, and he took a step back up the stairs. “Make it twenty.” He opened his palm to a splay of grimed calluses and tobacco-stained fingers, eyes locked to the wall beyond Anna’s shoulder.
Noxious breath rose between them as Anna reached for her purse. He made a satisfied grunt as she lay a twenty in his dirty hand then pushed past, shuffling back into his room.
The rapping at the door became intense, the irritation in Angel’s voice obvious, all pretence at patience gone. “Miss Crofton bring Jemima down here! I know you’re up there. I saw you at the window.” The door vibrated in its frame as she rapped again. “Bring Jemima to me now ... or I’ll have to call the police!”
The neighbour’s door closed, leaving Jem and Anna on the landing, both staring at the silhouettes behind the glass. Anna’s mind reeled; she had been so careful to find somewhere hidden, out of the way, told no one. “How did she find us, Jem?”
“I-”
The rapping continued. “Jemima! If you can hear me, you need to come downstairs now. It will be better for your sister if you come back with me this afternoon.”
Jem took a step to the stairs.
“No!” Hand gripping Jem’s shoulder, Anna forced her to stop.
Jem tugged at the grip. “You heard her!” she said as Anna slipped a restraining hand around Jem’s slim bicep. “She said you’ll get into trouble if I don’t go.”
“They don’t know you’re here—they’re only guessing, and I promised Mum, Jem. We have to stay together.”
A series of rapid, irritated knocks made the door vibrate in its frame.
“She’s going to break it down!”
“She won’t. She’s not allowed to.”
“But the police can!” Jem’s voice rose an octave.
“Stay calm, Jem. There are no police down there.”
The rapping stopped, and was replaced by muffled voices, then Michael Bembridge’s fat fingers pushed through the letterbox, his squat form disappearing below the glass. “Anna ... We’re leaving now, but when we come back it will be with the police ...”
“See!” Jem hissed. “You’re going to get into trouble!”
“It will be better for you, Anna,” Bembridge continued, “and for Jemima, if you let her come with us now. We can help you stay together ...”
With a hard tug, Jem pulled her arm from Anna’s grip. “Did you hear that? They’ll help us stay together.”
“No, Jem! They’re lying.”
“We’ll wait in the car for five minutes, Anna.” Bembridge’s tone was soothing, a contrast to the harsh, forty-a-day rasp of Angel’s scraping voice. “It’s your call ...” He let the words hang in the air and then the letterbox closed with a tang of cheap metal.
Jem hovered with her foot on the top riser, and both girls listened until the clack of Angel’s heels, and the thud of Michael’s shoes, were replaced by the banging of car doors and then silence. Hacking coughs, deep and phlegmatic, erupted behind the neighbour’s door.
“They’ll be gone in a minute,” Anna placated as she stepped back into their room, grabbing the final t-shirt from the bed, and stuffing it into the holdall. She zipped Jem’s bag then turned to her own. Jem moved to the window, peering through the slit between the curtains.
“Come away, Jem! Or she’ll see you. They don’t know that you’re actually here.”
“Well ...” Jem stayed at the window. “She’s still there. She’s not going!”
“She will do. And when she goes, so will we. Get back from the window.”
The car’s engine thrummed into life. Anna peered again through the gap in the curtains and watched as the blue car pulled away from the kerb and disappeared down the road. As it took a right at the junction and disappeared, Jem’s mobile rang and, in a moment of clarity, Anna realised just how their safehouse had been discovered. “You aren’t supposed to be using that!” Her eyes locked to Jem’s as the mobile continued to ring.
“I had to!” Jem threw a petulant frown as she pulled the phone from her back pocket, her attention now on the screen. “How else am I supposed to talk with my friends?”
“It was y
ou!”
Jem ignored her as she thumbed the screen.
“Jem, who did you tell?”
CHAPTER TWO
Manchester
Thin light seeped through the window as Callum ‘Frostie’ Frost woke to Gregor’s shout of ‘Bring tea!’ The man’s growling baritone filled Callum with even more dread now than it had done after the first week of being shackled to the gang.
Callum turned in his bed, pulling the covers over his head as Gregor barked more orders at Shannon, his latest in a long line of ‘girlfriends’. From the man’s harsh tones, this one wouldn’t last any longer than Casey, his last woman, had. Callum gripped the bedclothes in his fist, pulling his hands to cover his ears as the crash of breaking pots from the kitchen was followed by Gregor’s roar of, ‘What now, bitch!’ and the slamming of a door. After eight months of sharing the same running houses with Gregor when they visited their end-of-line towns, Callum knew exactly what would happen next, and each time was no easier to bear.
Casey’s final beating had followed months of Gregor’s special brand of ‘keeping the sket under control’, and he’d dumped her, swollen eyes purpled from repeated punches and narrowed to slits, in a ditch overhung with hawthorn along a country road, muttering, ‘Bitch can make own way home’, as he’d slipped back behind the wheel of his gleaming BMW. Casey hadn’t made it back to Gregor’s flat, or to any of the squalid houses he’d kept her at during the previous months. The discovery of the woman’s beaten and broken body had been relayed to Gregor by one of the gang’s runners. The man had shown no remorse, only anger that the ‘bitch’ was causing him more trouble but, so far, the police hadn’t made the connection, and the story hadn’t even made it to page one of the local newspaper; just another dead druggie, another kid that had slipped through the care system’s net, not someone any of them gave a shit about.
Dark Winter Series (Book 1): Dark Winter Page 1